


Take Me in Your Arms

by Tassandra



Category: Dark Roots
Genre: Cate Kennedy, Seaside Burial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-11 08:08:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4427828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tassandra/pseuds/Tassandra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>POV of the deceased daughter in Cate Kennedy's, "Seaside Burial".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take Me in Your Arms

You can’t bear to look at them. You don't want anyone else to see them either so you pull at your sleeves, clenching the ends in your tiny fists. Staring at the wet pavement, you tap your foot once, twice, three times. Up and down. Your runners are damp with rain and a sickly squelching sound made by the soles cause your toes to curl. The hair on the back of your neck stands on end as you release your fists, fingers splayed like a star. After a moment, you clench down again, this time pulling every muscle in your body taught; holding your breath. You listen to the steady drip of water from the roof of the bus shelter. Drip. Drip. Drip. You count twenty drops before your lungs start to burn. A pounding begins in your head and all of a sudden you can’t take it any longer. You deflate like a balloon - a breathy whoosh of air leaving you all at once. 

Pulling your jacket tighter around you, you lean as far back into the shelter as you’re able whilst a gush of frosty wind hurtles past. The thin, worn material does little to stave off the chill and you feel a shudder run through your spine causing your bones to ache with a whole new fury. They hurt all the time, nowadays. You wish somebody had told you this fact before you tried going cold turkey, but now, here you are standing in a crowded bus shelter, too far on the outskirts to even benefit from the body heat of those around you. Your bones are aching, your stomach long past its weary protests that you need to eat. Your arms and legs resemble twigs - all knees and elbows - and your face is a sallow, drooping bag of ashen grey skin. 

You turn to stare at your reflection in the perspex advertisement to your left, a weak, strained cringe pulling at the skin on your face as you take in the dreary bags that hang beneath your eyes. Mum always loved your eyes - said they were pretty enough that she didn’t need any diamonds or gems in her life. You were her gem, the only one she’d ever need. Now they’re a faded grey, the whites of your eyeballs tinged yellow by smoke and poison. What would she say, if she could look into your eyes right now? Would she see what you’ve been through? What you’ve done? Or would she just see her little girl, smiling back at her through the misty shadows of a miserable year just gone? Its been longer than a year though. One year since you last saw mum. Three years since you graduated. Three weeks since you last shot up. It’s been three months since you last worked - that’s been the killer. You blew your whole paycheque on one lousy hit. Chasing after that immeasurable, life-giving high.

If mum could see you now. Limp, unwashed hair. That Kate Moss physique you craved all throughout high-school, achievable only by a routine of combined excessive dieting, countless pushups and two packs a day. What a joke. “The real secret,” you think sardonically, “Why, it’s the white stuff kids! Guaranteed to give you that waif, underfed starlet look - no dieting needed! I’m telling you, this stuff’s amazing - you won’t even want to eat!”

You pull at your sleeves again, the material stretching tight over your wrists, threatening to slip over your shoulders and down your arms. You loosen your grip to abort any more movement your jacket might make down your shoulders - lest the world be privy to the needle tracks that snake up along your arms.

The last time you saw mum, her eyes were wide, tears welling up as her mouth hung open, slack-jawed and gaping. Your breath stuttered to a stop. You had felt as if your heart might have too. The world had tilted on its axis and you stumbled backwards, your feet scuffing on the carpet as you collapsed on the bed behind you, arms supporting your weight, fingers eaten by the duvet. She had frozen at the doorway, eyes fixed on the scars, fresh and aged, that littered the lengths of your arms and legs. Normally she would have knocked, but she was tired and disoriented after a long day at work, unaware that you had been changing your clothes. Had you been younger - and without pin cushions for arms - you might have screamed at her to leave. Thrown something at her even, as she hurried to close the door. But you didn’t. You were in shock. You were ashamed. And you felt guilty. Guilty that, despite all the problems the two of you have faced together, the money - its always the money -, you went behind her back. You did something stupid and you know what? At the time, you really didn’t care. Nothing could hurt you - you were young. You were invincible. You had all the time in the world. 

If you were honest with yourself - really honest, not all that simpering, self-deluding drivel you used to vomit during moments of doubt and questioning - you’d openly admit that you still don't care. It’s not like you haven’t heard the stories, the horror accounts from grieving parents and siblings. You can list off the signs and symptoms on cue. Shortness of breath. Dry mouth. Constricted pupils. Loss of motivation. Incoherent speech. Weight loss. Cut, bruises or scabs from picking at the skin. Let’s not forget amenorrhea - that’s a really good one - can last you years. You know these symptoms. You’ve had these symptoms. You’ve been these symptoms. But, right now, thats not enough, not enough to deter you from your mission. Nothing - not one of these could compare to what you're experiencing now. Right here, as you stand, waiting for the bus. The same thing you've been experiencing for the past three weeks. You haven't slept in days, your bones ache with the constant reminder that you are without. Daily life consists of a race away from the hazy cloud of nausea that manages to hang interminably from your coat tails, almost as strongly as the storm of depression that has taken use of your face. 

You’re dying for a hit. The urge itches its way into your brain, unshakable and insistent. Its taken over the part of your brain that first warned you away from the small, white grains. The part of your brain that took control of your life and made you reevaluate everything - your house, your income, your mum. The part of your brain that would no longer exist if there hadn't been an ambulance nearby. That wouldn’t exist if you hadn't of passed out, delirious, in the laneway between McDonalds and the station. 

The sudden burst of chattering brings your head up, phantom sirens falling silent to deaf ears. You turn to see the bus careening around the corner, smoothly avoiding the cars in the opposite lane. Its red, bulking frame comes to a stop in front of the bus shelter and you falter in your steps towards the door, damp strangers streaming past you in their haste. What to do? You’ve finally reached a cross roads. You picture yourself climbing on the bus, the journey and wave of muted colour. Next thing you know, you’ll be alone on a bathroom floor somewhere, blissfully unaware. At peace. 

Your feet drag as that slowly dissipating area of your brain urges you to stay where you are. The pain is becoming unbearable and you can’t tell if its merely your imagination that causes it to seem that way or if your body truly is crying out for that sweet, sweet poppy seed waste. You try to recall what reason, exactly, you could possibly have to not get on the bus. Echoing screams accompanied by blood ragged fingernails and scratched arms blossom, but are anything but moving. They’re faded - two-toned. You’ll admit they scare you. You really are scared - but it only causes you to push those images from your mind. Only causes you to conjure up memories of pleasant trips and no pain.

The bus driver whistles, an impatient scowl crawling across his face, drawing his eyebrows together as he stares down at you from his perch. You pull yourself out of the relaxing haze of smoke, powder and liquor to focus on him. The thought of your supplier waiting for you behind the shabby wooden door, paint peeling from its frame, has your stomach in knots but your heartbeat speeding with excitement. You clench your fists once more, breathing in deep as the bus driver clears his throat. You glare up at him, your annoyance mounting as you steel yourself and begin to fumble in your coat pocket for your ticket.


End file.
